


This Time (You'll Stay Right Beside Me)

by 3valia



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Anxiety, Depression, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, Teenagers, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-03
Updated: 2013-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-28 01:17:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/668602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/3valia/pseuds/3valia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John's depression has spiralled out of control after the death of his abusive father, and a suicide attempt lands him in Bluewood Psychiatric Hospital. </p>
<p>In there, he meets a boy named Sherlock- an incredible, brilliant boy named Sherlock. And they maybe, possibly, fall in love with each other a little along the way.</p>
<p>*Rating & warnings may change in the future*</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I tried keeping this to a minimum but there's a load of stuff I need to cover-
> 
> I'm horrible at first chapters and establishing everything, so I'm asking for every ounce of mercy you have as I get the ball rolling. Also, if anyone is willing to be a britpicker or beta, I will love you forever and ever and ever.
> 
> I understand that some of the issues in this fic are sensitive for a lot of people, so I will try to approach them as accurately and sensitively as possible. If you think I've portrayed something inaccurately, please tell me in the comments and I'll try and make some changes. This fic is set in a psychiatric unit/hospital, and I have no experience in this area, so I will almost definitely make some sort of mistake when it comes to the daily routine and what patients can/can't do. But, this is where the wonders of artistic license come in. :) 
> 
> I've tagged all the major trigger warnings that will feature in this fic, but I'm sure a few more might come along as I add more chapters. I will tag them as they come and also add them to the chapter notes.
> 
> Work title is from "This Time" by Cassidy Haley.
> 
> Well, I think that's it for now. Other than that, comment/kudos if you like this chapter and I'll try and have the next chapter up soon! :)
> 
> -Sherlock is the property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC. I do not make any profit from this whatsoever-

_Dear Mum and Harry,_

_I never meant for it to come to this, but all I know is that I can’t do this anymore. I hope you will try to understand and eventually come to terms with it. I know you’re both going through hell, and it will be better off this way. You’ve got enough things to worry about without having to take care of me, so please don’t be sad.  I love you both so much, and I don’t want either of you to blame yourselves for this. This was nobody’s fault but my own, for not being able to handle things. Mum, please take care of Harry and make sure she’s happy, and most of all, make sure you’re happy too. You’ve always taken care of me and I’ve always loved you for it, even if I didn’t say so. And Harry, I hope you get everything you ever want, because you deserve it. You’re going to be amazing, no matter what you do. You’re the best big sister a guy could ever ask for, and I only wish that I could’ve been as good to you._

_I’m sorry, and I love you both more than you could imagine._

_-John x_

There was a point in time where he could have ignored this. Filed it away in a dusty, unused corner of his mind which only reared its head when he’d had a particularly bad day.  Depression had a way of consuming your every thought before you realised it, though. He’d seen people destroyed by it, and his mother tried to do all she could to help him. But she was skint on money as it was without having to pay for counterproductive therapy sessions. After his father’s death, she’d been working double shifts just to make rent, let alone keep food in their pantry.

He knew this was what he needed to do, but the guilt invading his chest was threatening to make him turn around and forget the whole thing. He ascended the stairs with slow and deliberate steps and opened his bedroom door. He moved the books and clothes on his bed aside and sat down, his mattress giving way with a low creak.

He opened the lid with shaking fingers, and placed the first pill on the centre of his tongue.

~

_6.52 am_

Sherlock groaned and rolled over onto his left side, his breath hitching a little when his back twinged. The mattresses at Bluewood were mediocre at best, but miles ahead of what they provided at the State psychiatric hospitals he’d had the misfortune of staying at.

_38 minutes until wake up call._  He knew there was no hope of falling asleep again. His insomnia medication had worn off some time ago, and it was only thanks to pure exhaustion that he got another hour of sleep after waking up earlier. This was the worst part of the day, worse even than group therapy, where he had to pretend he didn’t want to murder each and every person within a 10 metre radius with a harpoon (voicing those sorts of thoughts only got you thrown in isolation.) The moment he woke up every day was the moment he realised he would have to face another day in the same place, with the same people, and the same all-consuming misery settling low in his gut.

The bed next to him was empty. Most people didn’t last a day in the same room as him. He preferred it that way, if he was being honest with himself. He was here against his will in the first place, thanks to Mycroft’s interference.  Being forced to sleep in the same room as some dullard who was beyond any help would only serve to make his stay here infinitely more unpleasant.

He’d be out of this place by now if it weren’t for Mycroft. Most people were out of here within 2 weeks, but his meddling git of a brother knew he would only try to hurt himself again if they let him out. He’d been here for four and a half weeks now, the days a long and endless rinse and repeat of  _therapy, meds, therapy, meds, sleep._  It was driving him utterly insane, and in his opinion it was doing more harm than good. Not that his brother would listen, though.  He did try to charm his way out of the place, (he was exceptionally good at it), but Mycroft had all the nurses and psychologists in a chokehold.

He lied awake in silence for a while, until the nurse opened the door and informed him that there was half an hour until breakfast.

He dragged himself out of bed and showered on autopilot. It was _almost_  like instinct to him now. (He would never let himself be under the influence of something so pedestrian as  _instinct_.) He brushed his teeth and hair, and shaved under the close supervision of one of the nurses. The eye roll he treated her to as he handed back the razor made her narrow her eyes in contempt.

Meal times at the hospital were the only decent part of the day. All meals were communal, and this meant he could sit with Gregory Lestrade, a patient from the adult ward. Lestrade was the only patient, or person, for that matter, that put up with Sherlock’s difficult personality. He was a 32 year old former Detective Inspector with Scotland Yard, who was in the unit for multiple suicide attempts after his wife had repeatedly cheated on him with one of his close friends (something that Sherlock had loudly deduced within the first thirty seconds of meeting him- deductions which, to Lestrade’s credit, were met not with a punch in the nose like they probably deserved, but an eyebrow raise followed by a smirk.) They spent breakfast, lunch, and dinner discussing the lives of the people that surrounded them.  There weren’t many interesting people in the psychiatric unit, but it was entertaining enough to forget where he was for just a little while.

He spotted Lestrade sitting at their table the moment he came through the meal room doors. He waved a hello and grabbed some toast, coffee, fruit, and a yogurt. He’d probably only end up eating one slice of toast and drinking half of his coffee, something which would be duly noted by a nurse on duty, but took it all back to the table anyway.

“Morning.” Lestrade said with a quirk of his lips.

“Good morning, Lestrade,” Sherlock replied, placing the tray on the table and sliding into the seat opposite his only friend.  “What has gotten you so unusually bright this morning?”

“My wife called just before I came to breakfast. She wants to try again. I think it’s about time, y’know. I think she might have changed.”

_No, she’s sleeping with the P.E teacher,_ he thought. He’d learned to school these thoughts by now, though, and rearranged his facial expression into what he hoped would resemble a smile.

“I’m happy for you,” he lied.

Lestrade ate in silence for a few minutes, studying Sherlock’s face with slightly narrowed eyes. Sherlock nibbled on his toast with no real intention of finishing it, his appetite gone. Sometimes he hated knowing everything about everyone _._ He suspected that it had lost him a few potential friendships in the past few years, and damaged his relationship with his brother. Lestrade was a good friend to him, but the chances that their friendship would go beyond Bluewood were slim.

When Lestrade had slurped the remains of milk from his cereal bowl he nodded towards a table on the opposite side of the room.

“New patient?” he asked.

Sherlock turned his head to follow Lestrade’s gaze, and his eyes fell upon an oddly handsome boy with sandy blonde hair and tired eyes.

_Admitted involuntarily for a suicide attempt overdosed on painkillers (how original) wants to be a doctor left-handed has an alcoholic sibling his mother is never around his emotionally abusive father died in an alcohol-induced fight and he feels guilty for being relieved about it he wouldn’t be able to afford this facility so a wealthy and concerned relative has offered to pay for his care probably not from his dad’s side as he would never have accepted it so possibly his mother’s side probably a female most likely an aunt or grandmother._

He was jolted back to reality by Lestrade clearing his throat.

“Umm, yes. He looks about my age, probably in the adolescent unit,” he answered, his head spinning a bit with the overload of new information. The boy looked over and caught Sherlock’s gaze, offering a half-hearted smile. Sherlock never felt to need to return such pleasantries, but for the first time in his life, he smiled back.

“S’that all?” Lestrade teased.

It was Sherlock’s turn to clear his throat. “I’m not sure.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock & John meet for the first time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yaaaay! I have a beta! Thanks to magicranberries for making this chapter readable <3 
> 
> Not much to say about this chapter, except a small note about the room arrangements. I'm not sure how it would work in real life, but for the sake of the fic, I've put them in a room together. I'm asking for your mercy when it comes to all of these technical things!

Mycroft called every second day, usually in the morning when there was a lull in his schedule. Sherlock didn’t know why his brother went out of his way to call; he was already bribing the staff to keep him informed of Sherlock’s every move.   
  
“Good morning, brother dear. I trust you’re behaving yourself?”  
  
Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically, not caring that he didn’t have an audience. “You know full well that if I wasn’t behaving myself you’d hear about it. Stop paying off nurses to spy on me.”  
  
Mycroft hummed noncommittally. Sherlock could hear rustling papers and the murmur of Anthea’s voice in the background, quick and formal. The pause in conversation was infuriating- Mycroft was letting Sherlock know how low he was on his list of priorities. “Such language, Sherlock... I was calling to check up on you. How are you doing?”   
  
“You call me every other day to find out how I am doing, but I know for a fact that you shoved me in here so you don’t have to deal with me yourself. This place is driving me insane, which you are fully aware of. Don’t pretend to care about me more than your work; I’m the last thing on your mind.”  
  
He heard Mycroft groan in frustration and take a deep, calculated breath. “I am not _pretending_ to care,” he spat. “ I am paying for you to stay at an incredibly expensive private facility because I am _concerned_ for your health. I have it on good authority that you’re getting the best care possible. I don’t want you to make a huge mistake with permanent consequences, and I’m holding you there for that reason. You are my only brother. Don’t you _dare_ tell me that I don’t care about you _._ ”  
  
Mycroft sounded livid, which made Sherlock smile wryly. He loved it when he broke his brother’s calm façade.  
  
“You don’t want me to make a ‘Huge mistake with permanent consequences’ because it would _inconvenience_ you. Do not even try to convince me otherwise. Ever since Mummy and Father died, I’ve been a bother to you. I’m just your junkie brother. You’ve been trying to get rid of me from the moment you realised I’d be too much work. Now, why don’t you go start a war and let me get back to ruining my life?”  
  
Sherlock slammed the phone back into the receiver, earning stares from the nurses. He felt slightly disorientated, and walking down the hall proved to be a harder task than he thought. The sick feeling in his stomach that had been there since the nurse called him to the phone grew, and he leaned his forehead against the cold wall to support his buckling legs. His breaths came short and quick, but he stood there for a while- it could have been two minutes, or an hour, he wouldn’t have known the difference- until his heart rate slowed and his breaths became even and deep.  
  
He walked back to his room, and felt a tension headache in its early stages blossoming at his temples. There was only twenty minutes until he had group therapy, but he needed a lie down. He was always in a volatile mood after talking to his brother, but this conversation had hit him harder than the others. His brother didn’t care about him, and he was tired of his lies. He wanted Mycroft to admit it, so he could accept it and move on. All he wanted to do was collapse into bed and scream into his pillow.  
  
That plan was ruined when he was met with the sight of the sandy-haired boy from breakfast sitting on the spare bed, facing the window. The boy jumped and spun around at the sound of the door, frantically wiping across his eyes. It was obvious that he had been crying. His blue eyes were bloodshot and his eyelids were puffy, and the tip of his nose was slightly pink. Sherlock felt a pang of sympathy, before gathering himself and realising _there was a stranger in his room._ And since when did he do _sympathy?_  
  
“Um, hi. I’m John. John Watson,” the boy said, breaking the brief silence. There was still a quiver in his voice, but it also held a practised steadiness.  
  
“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock replied, stepping forward and offering a hand. “May I ask what you’re doing in my room?”  
  
John stood up and rounded the bed until he was standing in front of Sherlock. He took his hand and shook it firmly, a small smile pulling at the edge of his mouth.  
  
“Nice to meet you, Sherlock. I’ve been roomed with you.” Sherlock held onto John’s hand a little longer than he probably should have, and dropped it immediately when he realised what he had done. John smiled again and coughed awkwardly.  
  
“I only got here a few hours ago, I saw you at breakfast this morning.” Sherlock glanced around the room and noticed John’s clothes in the spare wardrobe and the toiletries bag sitting on the side table. (How had he not noticed these things the _moment_ he walked in the room? He frowned at his obliviousness.)  
  
“Mm, yes... I remember,” he murmured, disinterested. “Wealthy aunt, I assume?”  
  
John’s smile turned into a glower. “What do you mean?”  
  
“Your clothing and the brand of your toiletries suggest middle class, but this psychiatric hospital is private and expensive, much more than you would be able to afford. Especially since your father died, leaving your mother to work extra hours,” John winced at this, and Sherlock paused for a second, carefully considering his next words. “Your mother or brother wouldn’t be able to afford the cost of this facility on their own, so, rich relative. Most likely somebody close to your mother, and therefore most likely a female- people of the same gender tend to gravitate towards each other. My guess is an aunt. She is clearly wealthy, and could easily afford to put you up in a single room, but you’re in a double. Why? You feel guilty about the cost of the facility, so you’ve asked to be put in a double room. It’s cheaper for her, and you won’t feel as guilty about it.”  
  
John stared for a minute, before the brightest smile Sherlock had ever seen returned to his face.  
  
“That... was amazing.” Well, that was certainly not what Sherlock expected.  
  
“You think so?” he asked.  
  
“Of course it was. It was extraordinary, quite extraordinary.” Sherlock felt a swell of pride in his chest at John’s words, a feeling that was unfamiliar, but definitely not unwelcome.  
  
“That’s not what people normally say.”  
  
“What do people normally say?” John asked, perplexed.  
  
“Piss off.”  
  
There was a slight pause before John laughed, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Sherlock couldn’t help joining in. Despite this, Sherlock could tell how uncomfortable John was when he laughed. It was almost as if there was an underlying guilt, a feeling of not being deserving of it.  
  
“There’s just one thing though,” John said with a self-satisfied grin, “I have a sister, not a brother.”  
  
“Sister. A _sister._ There’s always something. I assumed from the travel bag with Harry’s name on the label, that it was a brother.”  
  
“Nope. Harry’s short for Harriet. How’d you know my father died, by the way?”  
  
“It was a shot in the dark, good one though. You are responsible and strong-willed, far beyond your years. It could be an existing personality trait, but it seemed more likely that the male figure in your life passed away and you have stepped up to the role.”  
  
John sighed. “Incredible, absolutely incredible,” he said, a bit sadly. “You should make a job out of doing that.”  
  
Sherlock grinned, chuffed at the praise. “I’m planning on it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos appreciated!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to magicranberries for the beta! (and for making my writing tolerable.)
> 
> I feel like the story is going a bit slow at the moment, but the next few chapters should make up for it.

John grabbed a decent serving of food for breakfast. He hadn’t had much of an appetite since he’d arrived at the hospital, but it was slowly coming back. He spotted the table where Sherlock was sitting and headed over with his tray. He suspected that he’d been there for at least an hour. Sherlock was never in their room when he got up in the  morning, and he obviously only slept a few hours a night. John had woken up at 3 am that morning after a particularly vicious nightmare, and saw Sherlock sitting up in bed reading a scientific journal.

“It was just a nightmare,” he said quietly, not looking up from the page. John had jolted to full consciousness, but drifted off to sleep again within minutes. The nightmares happened every night since he’d gotten there, but Sherlock was always there to reassure him so he could sleep for a few more hours.

Now Sherlock was observing everyone in the room and didn’t seem to notice John. A piece of toast and a serving of scrambled eggs lay untouched on Sherlock’s plate, and he had only drunk a quarter of his coffee.

Greg sat across from him. John had instantly felt at ease when they were first introduced to each other; he was a comforting, fatherly figure, and John respected him immensely. They spoke while they both ate their breakfast, and the conversation inevitably turned to Sherlock.

“So, how long have you known him?” John asked Greg.

“I’ve been here a few weeks now. I met him on my second day. I was sitting alone at lunch when he came up to me, and it was a very bizarre experience, let me tell you. I’ve had my fair share of strange encounters in the Met, but I think he takes the cake. I don’t mind though, he’s good company.”

“The Met? You were a cop?” John wasn’t surprised, when he thought about it. As soon as Greg said it, he realised the job would perfectly fit the older man. Hedidn’t know why it hadn’t come up in conversation before.

“Yeah, I was a Detective Inspector at Scotland Yard. Not anymore though.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Why’s that?”

“Uhh, well, there was a copper there who wanted my job. There’s a long history of depression in my family and I struggled with it quite a bit in high school, so it got the best of me when I split with my wife. I didn’t know how to handle it, and I attempted a few weeks after it happened. He used it against me. Luckily, I ended up keeping my job that time, but I attempted again a few months later and was deemed unstable. I was forced to give up my position and they handed it straight to him. He was... is, I suppose, a bastard. It was horrible, and it all built up until I attempted a third time. My wife convinced me to come here and sort myself out.”

“Shit... I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. Really, I’m sorry.” John felt horribly guilty for being so curious, and poked absently at the leftover toast on his plate with his knife. He’d lost his appetite again.

“No, don’t be sorry. Honestly, I don’t mind. Talking about it helps me” Greg smiled genuinely and looked over at Sherlock again, then leaned forward and lowered his voicesoSherlock wouldn’t hear. “If I still had my job, I’d be letting Sherlock in on cases. He’s absolutely brilliant. I think part of his problem is that he needs something to occupy his mind- there’s too much going on, and too many things running through his head at once. He notices absolutely everything and being cooped up here isn’t good for him. He needs something to focus on. I wish I could give him that, but I can’t.”

John looked over at Sherlock, who was still engrossed in his deductions. He could see what Greg meant- his eyes darted about as if they couldn’t focus on one thing for more than a few seconds. “I wish you could, too.”

They sat in silence and watched Sherlock for a while, but John’s eyes happened to flit up to the clock and realised they had group therapy. It wasn’t compulsory, but he’d been making an effort to attend every session. When he looked around, he noticed that they were the only ones left in the room. He hesitated for a moment before disturbing Sherlock, then stood up to leave.

“Sherlock and I should probably go to group therapy, but we’ll see you later, Greg.”

~*~

Their therapy session was uneventfu. John was about to follow Sherlock to their room when he was pulled aside by Ella, the group leader.

“John, I’ve noticed that you and Sherlock have become good friends.”

“Um, yes, we have. Is there an issue?”

Ella smiled and shook her head. “No, no, of course not. I just wanted to say that I’m glad. The only person I’ve ever seen him talk to is Greg, and they barely get to see each other because he’s from the adult ward. Sherlock made it to two group sessions before you arrived. I’ve pulled him aside more than once and talked to him about it to try tofind out why, but he doesn’t seem motivated. He’s very closed-off and distant towards most people, but since you’ve arrived he’s been more engaged. It’s a good sign. He obviously trusts you and places a lot of importance on your friendship. It’s lovely to see him with a smile on his face.”

John didn’t know what to make of what Ella was telling him. Up until that moment, he hadn’t been sure if Sherlock liked him or not. “Oh. That’s, well, that’s really great. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll make sure he keeps coming to the group sessions.”

“Thank you, John.  I appreciate it. I’ll see you later on.”

John walked away with a strange feeling in his stomach. He didn’t know whether he was feeling a genuine fondness for his new friend, or whether he was latching onto the affection he’d been denied for so many years.

~*~

Days at the hospital were very meticulously planned, so it was nice to have half an hour of silence and freedom before lights out. They were sitting in their beds with the bedside lamp on.

“You are so strange,” John sighed, flicking through his novel. “I can’t believe you’ve never read The Great Gatsby.”

“I’ve never even heard of it, let alone read it,” Sherlock groaned, flopping back onto his bed dramatically.

John barely contained a snort. “That’s even worse, you big git. How could you go 16 years without hearing the name of one of the most famous novels of all time? It astounds me.”

Sherlock shot up suddenly. “My brain is my hard drive,” he said, his eyes flashing with irritation, “and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful. Ordinary people fill their heads absolute rubbish, and that makes it difficult to remember things that matter. Do you see?”

“Well, I can see the theory behind it, but...” John began, but Sherlock cut him off sharply.

“I don’t need to know the names of the most famous novels of all time, or the name of the prime minister, or who’s sleeping with who. It doesn’t matter. Why would I retain information like that when I can just delete it, and make room for something else?”

Then, something that Sherlock had said clicked. “Hang on, did you say ordinary people?”

“You know what I mean, John.” God, John was being absolutely dense.

“No, not really.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but frowned when he saw the mildly hurt expression on John’s face. “Hold on, did I say something wrong?”

“No. It’s fine. It’s late. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched in confusion as John closed his book and burrowed under the covers, turning towards the wall.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock mumbled. He got under the covers of his own bed, but turned towards John. There was silence for a minute or two (he wasn’t asleep, Sherlock could tell by his breathing pattern) before John shifted to face him, his eyes only just visible in the dim lamplight.

“It’s okay, I overreacted. You probably shouldn’t call people ‘ordinary’, though. They don’t take too kindly to it.” Sherlock couldn’t see the rest of John’s face, but could tell from his eyes that he was smiling. Sherlock hooked his fingers around the top of his duvet and pulled it down slightly, returning the smile.

“You know, I thought you would have asked to be moved to a different room by now,” he said quietly.

John’s eyebrows knotted together. “What? Why in the world would I do that?”

“I’ve been told on more than one occasion that I am intolerable. I just called you ordinary, for goodness’ sake. I always say the wrong things at the wrong time. People never stay with me for too long.”

“Oh, you definitely are intolerable, and you do say the wrong things at the wrong time. But I put up with it for some reason.”

“Why do you think that is?”

John was silent for a minute, thinking hard about the question. He honestly didn’t know why he put up with Sherlock; it was difficult to put into words. He’d had good friends in the past, but they always drifted after a while and lost contact. Sherlock felt right, though. He couldn’t explain it.

“God, I don’t know. You’re brilliant, you’re clever,” he looked thoughtful for a moment before continuing, “and you put so much effort into trying to impress me with your deductions that it would be cruel to ignore you.”

Sherlock took a few seconds to realise John was teasing him. “Oh, shut up. I do not try to impress you.”

John laughed and reached over to turn off the bedside lamp. “You so do. ’Night, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John.”

Darkness fell and Sherlock closed his eyes, but waited until he heard John’s breathing even out before he allowed himself to sleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments/kudos appreciated :)

**Author's Note:**

> Comments/kudos appreciated :)


End file.
